


The Little Man of Words

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author John, Comfort/Angst, Reconciliation, after two years..., happy endings, humanized Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:38:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was many things. He was a soldier, a doctor, a friend. Sherlock's death turned him into something rather unexpected; a writer. He wrote a trilogy chronicling the adventures of Sherlock Holmes without ever suspecting how successful they would become, transforming him into a world renown author.</p><p>What happens when a very much alive Sherlock stumbles upon these books, halfway around the world? What happens when he finally returns?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this down as an idea after I got a tad bit emotional reading quotes and things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :).

Words like chalk.

They hung on the board of his mind for moments; minutes, days, years. Eventually they'd be wiped away. Most cleared quickly; inconsequential, menial things. Some hung on longer, for days, with effort. Some forced themselves on him with a gun and a war, and others pressed themselves onto him from a dying man.

The final wipe of the board. A slate cleaned with blood.

And a fall. He could see the words, the memories, in all their brilliance, flying off the tails of his coat, flaking into the wind. Others held on, seeping out onto concrete sidewalks, stained red. The clever ones pasted themselves to the still living bodies, their red hands carrying what remained of a life.

 

His mind was a strange place. His friend's had been stranger.

The word's he kept; pressed upon him in the fast, quick moments before a fall, did not fly to him through the wind, seep red onto his hands. The ones he kept were given to him through a phone and a voice and they were gifts; thought out, intentional. He preserved them in his mind, and they haunted him.

Magic tricks and fake detectives. The gifted words had been lies.

He gave them back months after he had received them, pressing warm words onto cold marble and watching them chill on the stone, glint off the gold letters. There was no man left to take the words back, and they floated away on the breeze.

It helped when it should not have. If the words had not found their rightful owner, why would he not feel the weight anymore?

The words continued to leave him, to lift the burden off his shoulders and carry on in the wind. He never suspected where they would go. He had never intended for them to press the burden on another man.

The words found their rightful master, settled on him in a novel of guilt bound by no regrets.

 

*****

 

He found himself at a loss in an office, across from a woman with a clip board and a useless words.

_The things that you wanted to say, but never said. Say them now._

He'd rather keep them inside.

They didn't claw at him like they were meant to, rather they burned; slow and scalding and comforting all at once, a burden at the bottom of his heart that he intended to keep for the rest of his life.

John had never been good at making predictions.

He'd give them up in three months.

 

The words took a week to drive him out of his home.

They swirled in the air, lost. Left behind by the man in the funny hat, left to stumble around his boswell's breath and torment his mind. Quiet deductions whispered in the bookshelves, from the abandoned couch. Unsaid criticism floated from behind his chair as he typed, endless pages, words that twisted time and people and adventures.

A phantom melody played in the night.

The blogger typed on, drawing words from the air and his mind and his heart, planting all the things that had been, where they belonged; in the past.

_In a romantic chamber of the heart, in a nostalgic country of the mind..._

He let the blinding glow of the computer screen keep the words at bay.

 

He left when insomnia started plaguing him, the words chasing into his dreams, altering his returning nightmares. A snatch of a thought, wiped clean a second after being born, said that he missed his old dreams. Back when he was haunted by explosions and war, not friends and words and mysteries never to be solved.

The dreams didn't stop in his new flat, small and sterile, walls white and wordless, shelves empty of memories. The majority of his belonging still resided in 221B; perhaps he was being sentimental. Perhaps he was preparing for what his heart whispered but his mind refused to write.

His friend was dead. He had left his words, his music, and his scarf to haunt him. Why else would they never leave him alone?

 

While the dreams didn't stop the the whispering did; there were no floating words in this white washed flat, and if there were, they did not want John. Instead silence filled the nights while he tried to will a heaviness behind his eyes, only to be interrupted by the sound of clicking keys, the noise of surrender.

The story grew like a lie.

His therapist would have told him he was trying to rewrite the past. John would have told her different, until the sentiment became true.

 

A month after the fall, words became all John had.

He weaved them day in and day out, working towards the end, obsessing over its completion. As if the words would somehow heal him. As if he could give them back into the pages of a book and be done with it.

Slowly, people stopped checking in.

Every now and then a word was tossed at him from Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. He had stormed into Mycroft's office the day after Sherlock had fallen and told him to never contact him again; for once, he listened.

He left the flat only when necessary; words floated around and followed him, whispers in the crowd.

His life became a race towards the end of a story he wished was true. He called it _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

 

*****

 

"Well, John. I'm glad you feel this way."

She smiled demurely and marked something that John couldn't read on her clipboard. Not that he cared much. This would all be done within ten minutes.

"Yes, well, the books are doing well and I'm feeling fine. Thank you for helping me."

"You're very welcome John. It's been a pleasure."

 

*****

 

"So John, did you ever expect such a large response to your series?"

"How are you feeling about this up and coming anniversary of Sherlock's death?"

"Are you planning on a publishing the rest of his cases?"

"What do you want to say to all the critics who believe the story of Richard Brook?"

 

Breathing heavily, John practically fell against the door of his flat, black camera flash spots dancing in his vision. There were days when he could look at the three books on his bookshelf and feel proud, content. Happy to have documented a little of Sherlock's brilliance for future generations. Delighted that the world had taken to them so quickly, so fervently. There were other days when he could only think that Sherlock would have hated all this press, days when he realized that his books were catering to the very media who had apparently pushed his friend to jump.

Today was one of those days.

With three days to go until the two year anniversary of what he referred to as The Final Problem, press hounded him from his flat to the surgery to Tesco's. He was, to a point, famous. The man behind the trilogy that had topped charts and won awards internationally. He wasn't a returned army doctor anymore, living off of compensation checks and a part time job as a physician; he was an author, richer than he'd ever wanted to be. He could afford a mansion as large as the one that Henry Knight lived in. He could buy all of Mrs. Hudson's flats. And yet he had stayed, in the small little flat that he hated, writing drafts of Sherlock's cases on a plastic desk, facing blank white walls. The place held a feeling of safety; he had run here to escape the ghost of his best friend. Perhaps he was running still.

While a great deal of people adored his books, there were always the ones that lashed out, critics that pitied him, calling his last book an attempt to rewrite the past. His therapist had said he was still living in it, hoping that one day Sherlock Holmes would show up at his door with a case and the keys to 221B. John never told them off for it. He never denied it. A part of him believed it too.

The first two books of his series had been pure non-fiction, retellings of their many cases, mini stories and long novellas chronicling everything from the Study in Pink to the Final Problem, every deduction and every chase put onto ink and paper. Those people loved. They swooned over Sherlock's brilliance and cried over the tragedy and wrote nice reviews.

It was the third book people had a problem with.

The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes was fiction. It was born from the dying hope in John's heart and had been written and rewritten almost a hundred times, deleted and then recovered. It gave a plausible explanation of how Sherlock faked his death, and then carried on with life. In it, they solved all the cases that Sherlock had never been able to prior to The Final Problem. John and Sherlock moved back into 221B and life resumed.

Sometimes he stared at the book and hated it with all his might. Contemplated burning it on the roof of St. Bart's.

Sometimes he read it over and over, a yearning in his heart and the heaviness of dry tears in his eyes.

He had stopped crying over it a year ago. To the public, he had had never cried at all.

But he had believed. He had stood in front of Sherlock's grave and he had written these inked words and he had believed. It had been all consuming, desperate. The kind of thing that only died with time.

On the second anniversary of Sherlock's death, he stopped believing. Two years was a long time. 


	2. The Memoirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She handed him the change and watched him walk out the door. Perhaps if he had stayed just a bit longer she would have recognized something in his eyes, or in his impossibly high cheekbones. But the bookstore cashier remained ignorant to the very living Sherlock Holmes, even as his legacy hit headlines and sat on her night stand at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy :)

"Oh I absolutely _love_ this series," the woman crooned, scanning the three novels' barcodes before handing them back to her customer. They had been Brenda's Bookstore's best sellers for weeks. "I hope he writes more."

"May I ask, which one was your favorite?" her customer inquired. He was red headed and rather tall, rectangular glasses resting on a sharp nose, enlarging even sharper eyes. A sweatshirt swallowed his slight form, making him seem college age, young. None of that caught her attention though, as it was all taken up by his voice. Rather, his accent

"The third book. Oh, it hurt my heart. Are you British?" 

"Very. Thank you."

She handed him the change and watched him walk out the door. Perhaps if he had stayed just a bit longer she would have recognized something in his eyes, or in his impossibly high cheekbones. But the bookstore cashier remained ignorant to the very living Sherlock Holmes, even as his legacy hit headlines and sat on her night stand at home. She only pondered the accent for another hour or so. 

It would only resurface three weeks later.

 

*****

 

In a small, family run hotel in Germany, Sherlock Holmes sat with three books in his lap and a heavy feeling in his chest as his eyes traces the golden leafed covers. 

_A Study in Pink, by John H. Watson._

_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by John H. Watson._

_The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, by John H. Watson._

Heart hurting indeed. He had first _heard_ of the books while in Russia, reading a newspaper in the frigid winter, his collar turned up in the one situation John would have deemed appropriate. He had first _seen_ them in Canada, on the desk of an incriminated school teacher. The nerve to buy them had only found him once he had landed in the United States.

He had read them all in the period of time he had taken to make his way, case by case, back to Europe. The first and the second were reminiscent of John's blog posts, if not exponentially longer, romance and adventure weaved in between the solid lines of logic that were the foundations of all his cases, at least in Sherlock's mind.

The third book was the one that him return.

As it had been, Sherlock had eradicated all traces of Moriarty's web a week before hearing of the new, revolutionary book series by one Dr. John Watson. The initial plan had been to wait out a year before returning to London, just to be sure that nobody still answered to the dead man, that if he returned to London, no harm would befall those he cared for. 

The third book had convinced him deviate his flight from Asia to southern Europe, all though it was more fitting to say that the book had forced him to return rather than changed his mind, because the moment the last page had been turned all the weak, terribly human emotions he had kept buried in the cement of St. Bart's came tumbling back into him. It was as if he had faked his death only days ago; tears trailing a path down his cheeks, unacknowledged. 

His thumb absentmindedly traced the gold leafed letters of _John H. Watson_. All three books had been styled in an old-fashioned, undoubtedly more expensive way than what was generally sold in bookstores nowadays. They were leather bound and gilded, the paper thick and ink dark. They were reminiscent of the old books he had on the shelves in 221B, and it made him feel a bit odd at the idea of John modeling them off them. 

To be honest, the entire existence of John's trilogy befuddled Sherlock in ways he was wholly unaccustomed to.

He had never thought of John being a good writer, to begin with. The John he had known was a soldier; human, righteous and dangerous. Staggeringly loyal. Completely extraordinary. It appeared now that he was also eloquent and a "recluse writer, preferring his flat to the outside world."

Packing the books away, Sherlock lay thinking on the small bed, feet dangling over the side, fingers steepled to his lips. His mind buzzed around the past, how Mycroft would take his returning to London, how Molly was doing, whether or not Lestrade had been promoted yet. But he continued, almost obsessively so, to orbit around his former flatmate and those damn books. How was John doing? How was he keeping 221B? Did he still invest wasted time in a string of girlfriends? Did he still work at the surgery?

Sherlock pondered many different things, questions that were unanswerable, some that he refused to acknowledge.

_Did he miss him still, even after all this time? Did he still believe in him, or was it too late?_

It was perhaps Sherlock's greatest fear; that when he returned, he would have no one to return to.

 

*****

 

The morning of the anniversary of his death was foggy, resting thick over the cemetery and clinging to Sherlock's Belfast coat, chilling his skin and dampening his oddly colored hair. He had allowed the dye to start wearing off a week ago, but his locks were still tinted slightly orange, so that his normally dark brown hair appeared unnaturally bright, shiny, hazel. Other than that he looked just as he had two years ago; the glasses discarded, as well as those horrid, pedestrian clothes. It had been one of his less pleasant disguises.

Another thing he had John's books to thank for; an annoyingly international fame. Suddenly, Americans could recognize him just by visiting their local bookstore. His silhouette had become poster material. Sherlock Holmes had been transformed into an icon in death, more famous than he had ever been in life.

He supposed, had he actually been dead, all this book business wouldn't be so bad. A legacy of sorts, and a large one at that. And to top it off, John would be well set up for life, a wealthy author. 

But he wasn't dead. And here he was, about to see John for the first time in two years, feeling the anticipation, the product of his fears.

 

John visited Sherlock's grave every year; at varying times in the day, but always before nightfall, and always bearing a bouquet of flowers and a mouth full of words. Sherlock had deduced that he would come early today; studying John's life from afar through the lens of an apparently rabid press group. It was only a little past dawn and John would come this early to avoid them, to make sure he had the place to himself. 

Minutes later, a short figure appeared, moving in the fog, their purposeful gait familiar. Sherlock stood only just behind the tree that grew next to his grave stone, watching as John, rather than laying down his usual flowers, laid down three pages. 

The plan had been to walk out and reveal himself the minute John reached the headstone. Instead, he pressed against the tree and couldn't summon the will to move.

Sherlock never seemed to be able to follow any plan nowadays.

Instead he waited with unmoving eyes, watching John place the fanned out pages at the base of his grave, then stand up and open his mouth to speak to the dead. 

"These are the first three pages of the last book." John started, voice soft. "I think, when I wrote this, I was still dreaming of the day that you'd come back. And I still do, sometimes, but I think I'm sure now. You're gone, and I'm still here. There'll be no more adventures. And I have to accept that. So thank you; they were probably the happiest times of my life. Wherever you are, you bastard," he smiled sadly. "I hope you're getting a kick out of this." 

John stepped back and seemed to contemplate the scene he'd made; three pages on damp grass, shivering against the back drop of black marble. "God, what would you have said right about now?" John murmured to himself, Sherlock barely able to catch the words. "You'd probably call me a fool."

"I wouldn't have," Sherlock blurted out, his mind freezing. Impulsiveness was something he had never experienced. Everything he said and did was controlled and thought out, logical and strategic. But now, his mind had abandoned him. It left him with his clumsy body to stumble out from behind the tree, stopping only when his coat tails brushed his own gravestone.

"John," he breathed, frozen in place, taking in the other man with sweeps of his eyes. He wasn't wearing the same clothes as he had owned two years ago; the only thing of old was his tweed jacket, the same one Sherlock had thrown onto him before pushing him out the door so many times, the same coat that had seen a great deal of their adventures together..

He felt another wave of an unidentifiable emotion settle in his chest, making him feel impossibly sad yet relieved. It didn't last long.

John was stock still, teeth slightly clenched and eyes wide, breathing shallow. Sherlock was almost afraid he'd gone into shock.

He made one step forward, and then another, until he was only inches away from Sherlock's body, separated by the marble headstone. 

He slowly reached his right hand up to Sherlock's cost collar, as if checking to see if it was real, making sure that Sherlock was more than an apparition from the grave.. 

"John." he said again, and the other man's eyes jumped up to his own. They stared at each other, and Sherlock felt as if he were drowning in a dark blue sea. 

The next thing he saw was the pale, quick flash of John's right hook, followed promptly by John's fist connecting soundly with Sherlock's cheek. The smaller man shoved Sherlock back towards the trunk of the tree, heaving, disbelieved and betrayed. He wheeled back for another punch, stopping inches from Sherlock's face as the detective moaned softly, shying away into the grass. Sherlock blinked up at his best friend, dazed and surprised, but most of all guilty. It settled in him like a weight as he watched John in front of him, struggling to speak, angry beyond words, too confused.

"John," he repeated, breathing the name into the fog. "John I'm sorry, but‚Äî"

"You're _sorry?_ " John yelled, standing back and staring at Sherlock with those wide eyes. "You, you‚Äî _die_ ‚Äîon me, leave for _two years_ , and never even spare a thought to me, whether you should, I don't know, send a card and tell me that you're _alive._ And I‚Äî"

It seemed that all Sherlock was now capable of was repeating John's name. "John, please," he breathed, sitting up, grabbing onto John's sleeves. He felt desperate, as of John was slipping away from him, the fear of losing him making him breathless. "Let me explain. I understand that you're upset but I did what I had to. I would do it again. Let me explain." 

"Why should I?" John hissed, ripping his arms away. Sherlock's hands fell into his lap listlessly. "Why should I listen to a word you have to say?@

"Because I need you." Sherlock forced the words out of his mouth. He dug up every last emotion he had buried over the past two years and flung them at his old friend. "It was all for you, John. Just let me explain. I missed you too, believe me I did, and I don't‚ÄîI can't leave you here believing that what happened was for nothing. Let me explain. Then you can," he swallowed hard, hands fisting the fabric of his coat. "you can turn me away. Just hear me out."

He stared up at John, feeling more scared than he had ever felt, more than when he'd stood on that rooftop and dropped, more than when he'd first realized Moriarty's master plan. Somewhere along the lines his mind had replaced _the work_ with _John_ , and he'd already lost the first.

He would be a mess again. Back to the state he'd been in seven years ago. Years in hiding had been tolerable, as long as he knew John and 221B and the game was waiting at the end of it all. As long as things would go back to as they had been.

Sherlock stared at his former flat mate, read him over again, saw what the past years had done, and realized that it may as well be an impossible dream.

"John?" he tried, feeling pathetic, wholly human.

Something seemed to soften within John's angry eyes. "Okay," he said quietly, reaching down to help Sherlock back onto his feet. "Come back to my flat. We'll talk there."

 

*****

 

Sherlock followed John through the back streets of London, eyes tracing each alley, every loose stone, memorizing the route, feeling the city again. It was half way through that he realized they were not heading to 221B. He really had forgotten London.

"You moved?" Sherlock asked, feeling almost hurt. 

"Too many memories there." John said honestly, ever the straightforward soldier. "You left me to come back to a flat full of open books and half empty tea cups and I just couldn't stay. You were haunting me."

"I am sorry about that," Sherlock replied morosely, the feeling of helplessness that he had experienced at the cemetery creeping back up again. He didn't bother shoving the emotion away. A small part of him had predicted, maybe even hoped, that the way he was acting, the things he had been feeling in John's presence would dissipate from their time apart. That he would come back to John the way he had been when he'd first met the man in St. Bart's; aloof, brilliant, and completely unattached. A machine, as John would put it.

If anything, the exact opposite had occurred. John's memory, his words, had haunted Sherlock like a ghoul in his mind palace, berating him when he tried to think, whispering to him as he tried to sleep. He had understood, for the first time, why they all cared so much, how it had never been a choice. He cared for John Watson, and now it was too late. There was no option to delete the feelings, nor any will left in him to fight them. He would try to understand, and that was all he could do.

"Where do you live now?" he ventured after another three blocks of silence. They were on a street that Sherlock barely recognized, even though he'd traversed every corner of London, multiple times. Two years was a long time indeed.

"Here," John came to a stop in front of a rather dull looking set of flats. They were small, only a fraction as large as 221B had been, and, Sherlock would wager, at a considerably lower cost. It didn't add up.

"You live here?" he asked, using considerable effort to keep the derision out of his voice. 

From John's tone he probably hadn't succeeded. "Yes. Problem?"

"I was just expecting," Sherlock caught himself. "Well, you are a successful author now." 

"I am."

"I just thought…"

"I don't need a giant flat in the heart of London. Could I afford one? Yes. Do I want one? No." John turned away and started making his way to the door, getting it unlocked before Sherlock had even started to move. "Coming in?"

Sherlock followed him inside, glancing around distastefully at the blank walls and lack of personality. "You didn't pick it for the looks." he hazarded, eyeing the plastic chair that sat behind a small desk. 

"I picked it because nothing here reminded me of you." John snapped, looking instantly sorry. Sherlock morphed his face into a controlled mask, trying to keep to bolt of hurt that had run through him from reaching the surface. Keeping things bottled up had been a talent of Sherlock's. He wasn't sure if he was still capable of it. 

"I suppose you succeeded." Sherlock murmured, feeling out of place. He looked down at the tiles of the floor, feeling as if looking John in the eye at the moment would not be a safe.

John sat down with crossed legs on his one man bed, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. He felt like a small child, about to challenge Mycroft to another round of Monopoly, rather than an undead detective, about to attempt to salvage a relationship with the one person who mattered the most to him. He steepled his hands to his lips and continued to avoid John's face. 

"Oh stop looking so miserable," John sighed, folding this hands in his lap. Sherlock continued to stare at the three inch gap between their knees. "You were the one who died, Sherlock. Not me."

That made him look up, if only to give John a halfhearted glare before launching into the story. He would slowed his normal pace. It was absolutely imperative that John understand.

"What would you like to know?" Sherlock started.

"How about why you jumped off a bloody building?" John said, looking up at him expectantly. Despite the hostility in the room Sherlock could feel the familiarity of talking like this with John, the back and forth, answering an endless stream of questions. He had missed this.

"Moriarty's reason or my reason?" 

"Humor me with both."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Well, Moriarty wanted to destroy me; not just my reputation. It was imperative that I be eliminated completely, simply end me would leave my legacy as an acclaimed genius as well as transform me into a martyr of sorts against his criminal web; it would also bring all of Mycroft's many resources down on him at once. No, he needed me ruined, and then dead as an afterthought. This much you already know. I had already come across this conclusion by the time his trial came around but was only sure when-"

"When you met Richard Brook for the first time at the journalist's house." John cut in.

"Precisely. I had less than a day to prepare, but Mycroft helped. Once Moriarty conformed to the rooftop it was simple; thirteen different routes to convince them of my death, although five of them didn't involve any falling. Of course, the first plan involved me convincing Moriarty to stop before anybody had to die, but I had underestimated his nerve. He committed suicide in front of me, and from there on the only option left was to jump, fake my death."

John's expression looked stormy. "So you committed fake suicide for what? To be clever?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm sure you can guess why I did it." Sherlock said, blinking his eyes open.

"No, I really can't."

"Well, he obviously threatened me." Sherlock tapped his finger's together to Bach's Partita No. 1. "Those snipers on the street weren't there for the key; it didn't exist. They were there for you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. There was one in the building across from St. Bart's, ready to shoot you in the head. What would you have done?" Sherlock smiled wryly at John as he tried to formulate a come back. "Fortunately he overlooked Molly. I needed her to find a body that matched mine."

John took a deep breath, and Sherlock could almost see him thinking, taking the new information in. "Well," he looked down, and then back up to fix Sherlock in his gaze. "I suppose I should call you a martyr, but then why the hell did you wait two years to come back? You couldn't have called, once? Not a word, not even a letter? I spent the last years writing novel's in your memory for god's sake…" John ran a hand over his face and groaned. "Even Molly knew. Why not me?"

"Because they knew what you meant to me." Sherlock said softly, his hand falling into his lap. "They were watching you, looking for any indication that I was alive. I've been dismantling Moriarty's web. That's why it's taken so long, but it's finally done." 

Silence invaded the small space quickly, as if it was trying to block off the inevitable, _what now?_

John didn't need a flat mate anymore. He was several time wealthier than Sherlock had ever been. John didn't even need the adventure anymore; he seemed to be doing perfectly fine without Sherlock's little cases, perfectly immersed within the real world. The heavy feeling of sadness started weighing down on Sherlock once more.

Things would never resume as they had been. Why would John want them to? He was better off now than he had ever been. Why would he want to be woken up in the dead of the night, chasing criminals and getting shot at every other week? Why would he want an unpredictable sociopath as a friend?

Why would he want Sherlock?

John's voice drew Sherlock out of his pointless, worrisome train of thought. "Where will you be staying tonight?"

"I…" Sherlock actually hadn't thought it out this far. He had been expecting, rather foolishly in hindsight, to be back in 221B by this time, living with John again, sleeping in his old room. Instead, he was here in a one room flat, with no where to go for the night. It wasn't as if he'd have to sleep on the streets; he was too resourceful for that. But the thought of going back to where he had been four years ago; alone and unwanted, made Sherlock sigh without his mind consenting it. "Well, I-"

"You don't have anywhere to stay, do you." John said, standing up. Sherlock followed suit. 

"No where legal but I'll manage." Sherlock replied, straightening his coat. He stopped smoothing when he caught the expression on John's face.

"Don't be ridiculous," John sighed, moving to open up his small closet. He dragged out a large, thick comforter and an a old pillow. "You're staying here until tomorrow." 

John proceeded to make a makeshift bed on the floor while Sherlock pondered with building dread what tomorrow would dread. 

"What happens tomorrow?" Sherlock asked as John dropped the pillow unceremoniously on one end of the comforter.

"Tomorrow, I am moving." John said, and Sherlock swallowed. "Or, I suppose, we're moving." John stood and smiled, and the expression was one that Sherlock had missed dearly. "I have missed 221B. This place was beginning to become unbearable."

"Then why haven't you moved back?"

John gave him a look that Sherlock would usually give him, a silent _can't you just think?_

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Well," John started, drawing out his answer. "Since you're not dead, I suppose there's nothing there to haunt me anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am contemplating continuing this story, even if this isn't a horrible place to end it. Thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Feedback is much loved. No really. It gives me strength. :)


End file.
